


The Curious Case of Writers' Block

by smallpaperstars



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: AU come thru, Adrinette, Adrinette but...make it Austen, Alternate Universe, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Marinette is Fed Up, Tropes, crack? is that what you smoke? crack?, homegrown cure for a serious case of writers block
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:21:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallpaperstars/pseuds/smallpaperstars
Summary: In which The Love Square is thrown into every trope/AU I can think of.Will they, won't they, blah blah blah...Everyone knows Ladybug and Chat Noir were made for each other. Except for them. And one writer in Paris is fed up with that.No coffee/flower shop AU will be left alive by the time she's done.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Kudos: 14





	The Curious Case of Writers' Block

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse.

It was a run-of-the-mill Tuesday afternoon when Marinette, suddenly and without any warning whatsoever, found herself at the center of a steamy Regency romance triangle.

She stifled a loud cry of shock, gaping at her ornate surroundings. A gilded ceiling vaulted over her; heavy red drapes swathed arched windows, bathing the room in a rosy blush. The room was littered with cozy chaises, fussy little poufs, and light fixtures so elaborate that they looked like birds’ nests.

All in all, a far cry from the Parisian catacombs – where she had been just a moment ago.

“What the _f_ – ”

“My dear lady Marinetta!” said a shocked voice from behind her. “That language is _most_ irregular!”

Marinette spun to find a woman who appeared just slightly older than her staring wide-eyed from the doorway. Marinette's hand automatically felt for her trusty yo-yo at her waist, but found nothing but fabric. Marinette glanced down and felt a thrill of shock run through her. Instead of a black-spotted scarlet bodysuit, she was wearing one of the ugliest dresses she had ever seen: bunched yellow muslin at her shoulders, chest, and midback hit her form in the most unflattering places possible. Feeling something pull at her hair, she reached up to find a wide bonnet sitting atop tightly starched curls.

“What am I wearing? Where’s Tomb Seder?” Marinette demanded. “He was just here!”

The lady tinkled a polite laugh, looking confused. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, dear.”

“Is this one of Hawkmoth’s tricks? Are you akumatized?” she accused.

“What a bag of moonshine! I’m sure I don’t know what that means, but I _daresay_ it sounds rather blue. I’m sure the events of this afternoon have simply unnerved you – two such fine gentlemen both in want of a wife, both unfettered by the bounds of matrimony, both setting their caps at you. It must have you feeling quite dicked in the nob.”

“Excuse me?!” Marinette advanced on the woman. “ _Where is Chat Noir, and why am I wearing a bonnet?”_

“No need to be infelicitous, Lady Marinetta,” began the woman, looking rather frightened. “Such dudgeon, while understandable, is quite unne - ”

“What language are you speaking?!”

The woman looked even more confused than before. “His Majesty’s English, Lady Marinetta, just as you yourself are. Have you had a touch of sun?”

“I’m speaking French,” Marinette argued. “So are you.” But even as she spoke the words, she realized that they were indeed conversing in English. _What is happening?_ “Who are you?”

The woman looked offended. “Why, none but your bosom friend, of course. Lydia Lyly.” She executed a curtsy that hurt Marinette’s knees just to watch.

“Okay. Fine. Lydia. Where are we?”

Lydia dispensed another tinkling laugh. “Surely you jest, Lady Marinetta. We can be in no other place than Agreste Manor, of course!”

Marinette’s heart leapt. “Agreste Manor? Is Adrien here?”

“Lord Agreste? Lady Marinetta, have you been making indentures again?”

Marinette growled, frustrated. “What?”

Lydia tried again. “Are you jug-bitten? Foxed? Malt above water? A trifle disguised? On the cut? Properly shot in the neck? Tap-hackled? Top-heavy? Half-sprung? Perhaps…bosky?”

Marinette grabbed the front of Lydia’s floofy pink dress. “Listen to me. I’m not going to be made fun of by someone wearing a loofah. For the last time, WHAT ARE YOU SAYING?”

Lydia began to cry delicately. “I’m only asking if perhaps you have…eaten Hull cheese?”

When she flew through one of the arched windows a moment later, her crying was not quite so delicate.

* * *

Marinette tore through room after palatial room, searching in vain for any clues. _One moment I’m battling a homicidal rabbi, the next I’m lost in Downton Abbey_ , she thought. _I hope Chat Noir is all right. He won’t do well if Hawkmoth’s put him in a cravat and tights._ “Tikki?” she called. How had she de-transformed without saying the magic words?

Hearing raised voices emanating from a ballroom, she skidded to a stop and grabbed a garish vase from beside the door as she burst inside. The room’s occupants turned and looked at her, seemingly aghast. She cursed in shock as her feet, clad in pointed silk slippers, slid out from under her and landed her on her butt. The vase shattered at the feet of the two strangers.

“I say, Lady Marinetta,” said the taller man politely, although his expression was scandalized. “Your eyes are positively _brightened._ ”

“Indeed,” his companion agreed. “You look as one who’s had a sudden fit of the blue-devils.”

Marinette’s eyes found the second man’s face. Golden curls swept down from his forehead, framing a finely-boned, smooth-skinned face and luminous green eyes. It would have been a nice face, had it not been flanked on either side by the most hideous mutton chops she had ever laid eyes on.

“Adrien,” she found her voice at last. “What in the name of all that is holy did you do to your _hair?_ ”

“I _beg_ your pardon?” He looked affronted. Normally such an expression on the angelic face of Adrien Agreste, particularly one directed at her, would have laid her in her grave, but the spectacular sideburns he was sporting absolved her of any sense of shame.

“I have a lot of questions,” she said, rising with as much dignity as one could when one was wearing an empire-waisted dress, “but they can wait. Who told you that was a good look for you, and _why_? I think they might need to join Lady Lydia out the window.”

Adrien spluttered, and the other man stepped towards her. Now that her attention was not focused on Adrien, Marinette recognized him as well.

“Ought we to fetch some smelling salts, Lady Marinetta?” asked Luka courteously. “You seem to be in quite a state. Has the prospect of our duel afflicted your delicate constitution so?”

Marinette took a deep breath. “Luka. What year is it? And if you say anything other than a number, you are going to feel my delicate fist in your face.”

He opened his mouth and then closed it, looking slightly put off. Adrien recovered enough to answer her. “It is the year of our Lord, eighteen-seventeen. One that I hope to be most auspicious for us both.” He bowed his head so low that it might have been charming, were it not for the way his cravat seemed to cut off his air supply.

“Wait.” She frowned. “Did you say _duel?_ ”

Adrien ripped open his ruffled shirt, exposing a heaving chest that might have been carved by Michelangelo. Marinette’s eyes bulged. “Verily,” he said throatily. He strode forward, chest heaving and buckled little shoes jangling, and caught her up in his arms. “I would die the final death, if only it meant you would drop a single tear onto my lonely grave, my Lady.” His eyes held hers so intensely that he began to go cross-eyed.

Marinette was almost lost for words.

Almost. She let out a single exclamation so vile that Adrien dropped her out of shock, and for the second time, she found herself flat on the floor.

* * *

Marinette watched in disbelief as Adrien and Luka squared off in the courtyard, each holding a slim rapier. They stood so closely that their noses were nearly touching.

“Have at thee, blunderbuss,” roared Luka.

“Thou corny-faced duke of limbs!” bellowed Adrien.

“Death’s head upon a mopstick!”

“Gollumpus!”

“Unlicked cub!”

“Shag-bag!”

“Squire of Alsatia!”  
“Tatterdemalion!”  
“Toad-eaten popinjay!”

“Spoony gundiguts!”  
“I…” Luka fumbled. “Just a moment. He withdrew a paper from his pocket, slipped a pair of reading glasses onto his face, cleared his throat, and read: “ _Whey-faced mooncalf!_ ”

“Did you _write down_ your list of insults?” Adrien demanded.

“I’m not always quick in the moment,” confessed Luka.

“Well, that’s rather unfair, isn’t it?”

“I just wanted to do your complete lack of honor justice.”

Adrien softened. “Terribly thoughtful of you. I quite liked ‘mooncalf’ – I’ve not heard that one before.”

“Why, thank you. Learned it at my mother’s knee.”

“I’ve met your mother and I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Gentlemen,” Marinette interrupted, feeling rather slighted that they were paying more attention to each other than to her; this duel was over _her_ heart, after all. Then she shook herself. _What am I thinking?!_ “I understand there’s honor at stake and whatnot, but I’ve got bigger problems than the two of you trying to murder each other for the pleasure of my company or whatever. I’m from a different century. Where there’s dental hygiene, and working toilets, and where it’s illegal to marry your cousin. I’d quite like to get back. So can someone _please_ tell me if they’ve seen a little red thing flying around? She’s got a squeaky voice and likes dessert.”

Both of the men looked befuddled as they shook their heads. Marinette sighed and hitched up her skirts. “Gotta do everything myself,” she mumbled. She had just resolved to ransack the manse top to bottom in search of her kwami when she was confronted by Lydia Lyly, whose fluffy little curls were strewn with twigs and debris. She was puffing hard.

“ _Lady Marinetta_ ,” shrieked Lydia. “I have endured your idiosyncrasies, your whims, your _dalliances_ with blue language – but this is the last straw. I can _not_ abide your behavior in ruining my hair!” She looked beyond the flabbergasted Marinette at Adrien and Luka. “Lord Agreste,” Lydia cried breathlessly. “I can no longer hold my silence. It is _I_ who wrote you those letters, proclaiming my undying affection for you; _I_ who lured you to the ball with promises of eternal joy, only to hide myself in shame when you arrived wearing the finest garters Sotherton has ever seen, next to which my finest apparel appears as sackcloth; _I_ who has been secretly engaged to you, according to the wishes of both our parents.”

Lydia threw her arms wide, nearly smacking Marinette in the face with a begloved hand. “I must now ask: make your decision, sir! Will you have this one whom I once called friend – this barque of frailty, Paphian, this Haymarket ware, this wanton trollop - ”

“I don’t know what that means, but _hey_.”

“ – or will you have me, your dearest heart? Say on, Adrien – my heart quivers until you speak.”

Adrien looked from Marinette to Lydia with a stricken look. “Oh, I am torn betwixt the two – torn between my heart and my head, torn between the one I love and the one I am bound to…my Lady Marinetta, I must speak to you alone.” He dashed to her and swept her inside, weeping gently.

“Um. Adrien. Lord Agreste. I don’t…”

“Peace,” he sighed, holding up a hand. “I must speak my heart’s truth. I love you, Lady Marinette – I have loved you ever since I saw you at that ball, putting the very stars to shame in your radiance.” Despite having replaced it since their encounter in the ballroom, she suddenly noticed this shirt was torn nearly to his navel. “I must hear it from your own lips – one word from you will either unlock my churlish heart forever, or will slide a dagger between my ribs. What say you, my dearest heart? Yea, or nay?”

“Um.” Marinette almost felt pity for him, tears shining in his eyes, shirt so wet with grief it was…plastered to his chest? Very distracting She shook her head. _Focus on the sideburns._ “I really can’t do this right now,” she said apologetically. “Tomb Seder’s upset about his son throwing an illegal Yom Kippur party in the catacombs, and I’ve gotta save Paris, and I _really_ do not like this corset, so I need to find Tikki and get out of here…”

Marinette was interrupted by Adrien throwing himself to the floor and weeping so loudly Gigantitan would have taken notes. “I beg you,” he said between sobs, “cease in your wanton destruction of my hopes. I cannot…”

“Okay, Fabio,” she muttered, grabbing him under the armpits and dragging him back towards the courtyard. “Keep your garters on. We’ll just get you back out and…” Marinette paused midsentence as she saw Lydia and Luka, who were wrapped around each other as if glued. It was hard to tell whose tongue was whose. “Hey!” she said loudly. “I thought _I_ was the wanton trollop here! Keep your story straight!”

The couple broke apart; Lydia wiped her mouth, looking dazed. “Honestly,” muttered Marinette. “Get a carriage, you too. So no one’s seen a little red flying thing?” When everyone shook their heads, she sighed and hitched up her skirts. “Even in the land of chivalry, I gotta do everything myself.”

But even as she began turning back to the manse, intending to search it from top to bottom, everything froze.

Adrien and Luke stood locked in place, staring slack-jawed at her now-exposed ankle; Marinette could not move a muscle no matter how hard she struggled.

“ENOUGH,” a voice boomed across the frozen landscape.

Panic rose up in Marinette’s throat. Was this another one of Hawkmoth’s sadistic games? Stick her in a corset, strand her in a Jane Austen novel, then strike her down when he was no longer entertained?

“SO DERIVATIVE,” the booming voice grumbled. “REGENCY. WHAT WAS I THINKING? I CAN’T PUT ADRIEN AGRESTE IN GARTERS. JANE AUSTEN IS SPINNING IN HER GRAVE.”

Marinette tried to scream, but to no avail.

“LET’S TRY A COFFEE SHOP AU,” the voice resolved. “THIS OUGHTA BE GOOD”.

The entire scene – Adrien, Luka, the estate – went dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I've watched the Bridgerton trailer enough times that it's etched into my brain. This fic came about because I want writing to be my escape, not a chore to check off, and my other stories are stressing me out a little. It's SUPPOSED to be this stupid, I promise.
> 
> Also, if you have any favorite AU's you'd like to see...shout them out in the comments!


End file.
